


The year Crowley went to Eurovision

by Eturni



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, Eurovision Song Contest 2014, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Mention of Dowlings and Warlock, Mentions of Russia's stellar track record with LGBT rights, Other, Pining, no betas we fal like Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturni
Summary: Nanny Ashtoreth takes a break from her job helping to raise the Antichrist in order to attend ESC in 2014.The sweep of positivity and over the top flash antics are just the kind of thing that Crowley loves and the angry politics of voting afterwards is perfect for a little demonic intervention. Of course, he hadn't expected to be reminded quite so sharply of his angel and how much he'd want him by his side to enjoy this thing he loved. Nor was he quite ready for how much love and acceptance ESC would pack in to combat the hatred rising in that year. Still, what's a demon to do but try to enjoy himself once he's already in it?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	The year Crowley went to Eurovision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JoseyxNeko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoseyxNeko/gifts).



> So there was a mini watch-party in a server I'm in and of course the undeniable fact that Crowley must love ESC came up so there had to be a fic about it. (I'm certain there are alredy but still.) Unfortunately my head managed to prove why I can't be allowed to have nice things when a night of over the top sparkles still managed to turn into pining on me. He just loves his angel so much, okay?

Crowley knew that Aziraphale had clocked her acting differently. Luckily, the angel prided himself of being skilfully ignorant of anything he wasn’t certain he was allowed to know. As such he had not asked about the change in behaviour. Had, in fact, so obviously not asked about her change in behaviour that it was ridiculous.

Aziraphale had been mulling over it for almost a full week. The telltale stutter of aborted sentences and increased nervous fidgeting with the ends of clothes and edges of tools had followed him through their last progress meeting and the few times they crossed paths on the grounds.

Warlock was causing a suitable amount of mayhem through the house, whilst stubbornly refusing to ride his tricycle indoors and take out the shins of the other staff. It gave her more than a little pride to see him growing into a suitably mischievous and defiant kid. Not to mention carefully well balanced with his angel’s influence.

It had made her more confident in leaving things for a short while. For a few years she’d just taken an early evening and the following couple of days off for the hangover. This year Crowley had booked a few days of annual leave, at great protest from Mrs Dowling until she had found a short term replacement, and had tickets to go to Copenhagen. She was surprisingly excited about it.

The world might be ending in a few years to make way for literal Hell on Earth but for this year there were still sequins, questionable music and manic stage directions to be enjoyed.

Not to mention Aziraphale’s budding frustration and anxiety about the mysterious upcoming trip made it feel like some temptation even with it being honestly barely worthy of note. All the better for the fact that so much of the angel’s intense focus was directed at her for it. She almost took pity on him a few times, when he pointedly talked circles around the time that she’d be away but the warmth of those eyes on her and the thrill of his scrutiny was too much to give up for such a simple explanation.

The first sign that Aziraphale was willing to address it directly was when Ashtoreth was already stepping out with her suitcase. The suitcase itself was unnecessary apart from the fact that Crowley planned to use it to get a false positive on detecting liquids and cause a short but significant delay to other passengers that would rile them up right before being locked in a very expensive waiting room. Works of genius, airports were.

She was a little surprised to spot Brother Francis already up and trimming the bushes (for all intents and purposes) despite the early hour. 

She slowed as she passed by him, ample time to see if he’d finally decided he wanted to be direct about his interests. Exactly as she thought his head perked up as she came past, hands that were already barely working slowing to an almost complete stop.

She thought for a moment that the angel’s courage might desert him until he finally spoke up just as she rounded the roses. “Ah, Miss Ashtoreth, is it that time already? Mind how you go now. Off visiting family I presume.”

Ashtoreth slowed herself and leaned ever so slight over the bush, slipping her sunglasses down to regard him coolly despite the slightest of smiles tugging at her lips. “Very presumptuous indeed, brother.”

Watching pink creep at the tips of Francis’ ears, his hands working over the handles of the shears in that endearing nervous fidget. “Ah, I apologise miss. Didn’t mean to overstep my mark there. I hop you enjoy your spot of time away.”

Ashtoreth could hear the question in the words. She could give Francis _something_ at least, even if it was just something that would keep him awake with the worry of what wiles Crowley could be sowing in a foreign country that would be more important than minding the Antichrist himself. “Well there’s no harm done. And I’m certain I shall, I hear Denmark’s very interesting this time of year.”

“Oh, Denmark!” Ashtoreth heard the unmistakable dropping of an accent into something perfectly Aziraphale. “They do absolutely wonderful pastries, and if you have the chance you really ought to try a good range of smørrebrød, you know. Terribly inventive.”

Ashtoreth straightened up and shifted her glasses back onto her face. “I shall take that into consideration, Brother Francis, despite such an odd tone change.”

The other had the decency to blush at being excited enough to drop all pretence. The mixture of food excitement and being chastised seemed to take up his attention for long enough for Ashtoreth to slip away with nothing more than the promise she’d be safe. She thought of Francis’ flushed face the entire way to the airport. Bloody angel.

\- - -

He’d had no idea how much fun it would be turning up to the newly branded Eurovision Song Contest in a more modern time. It was so unlike the few time’s he’d been before. The press of humans against each other towards doors as soon as they opened felt like being herded like cattle. Not to mention there were no less than three checkpoints with delays to wait, look over tickets, and apply wristbands that meant something to the workers and nothing to any of the rest of them.

He found himself idly taking notes about how to clog up the bureaucracy more in Hell as he worked to amp up tensions whenever there was an elbow in someone’s side or an errant foot trampling a stranger. The feeling of people desperately suppressing their annoyance because this was _supposed_ to be fun was as heady as a fine wine. Though of course most of that broke once people finally got into the main arena.

Crowley stood among thousands of clapping, cheering humans with his ridiculous Union Jack sunglasses and watched the fireworks exploding over the stage as the lights and the press of noise and music thrummed through his hollow corporation.

The swell of the crowd at each entrance caused a wave cheering that almost filled him. The excitement of the people around him was palpable. The inevitable rage of politics and cries of biased voting that would thrum secret through them in mere hours bringing an undercurrent of anticipation through it all. Crowley would indeed do a job of sorts here, but mostly that would build on its own. For a little while at least he could fall anonymous into a crowd and watch a parade of increasingly ridiculous offerings interspersed with the occasional ballad he could use to surreptitiously check in on Warlock.

Crowley ignored the first postcard in favour of watching the roadies set up a giant hamster wheel in the centre of the stage. This year wasn’t going to disappoint, obviously. Almost the second the lights went up there was a wind machine; dramatic flare galore despite hamster man looking like he was ready for an interview and the singer being in an actually decent dress. By the time she got to flirting through the wheel Crowley was sold.

It honestly took the wind out of his sails a little when a bunch of lads in suits turned up next and sang some decent if bland son. Not really in the spirit of things, was it? And a bit too early to start checking in on the Dowlings. He took the time to glance around to make sure no one was watching and miracled himself up a decent cocktail that he had to drink out of a water bottle to disguise it.

When Azerbaijan turned up in a red sequinned dress with an aerial acrobat the demon crossed his fingers for the first pyrotechnics of the night.

Absently, he thought of Aziraphale. He did enjoy playing ESC drinking bingo, especially with Graham Norton’s acerbic voice tearing everyone to pieces in the background, but it sometimes felt a bit sad doing that on his own while live tweeting bullshit to annoy people. He wondered if the angel would like this sort of thing, if they might watch it together some time. He knew he had a good shot at convincing him. For one, there was potential drinking involved. For another it was pretty easy to spin the “togetherness” and “love” aspects of it.

He blinked when, just as he was thinking it, the singer declared “Make love, not war. Thank you Europe.”

He hadn’t even realised the song had ended until that moment. He’d checked out thinking of his angel and watching the hypnotic spin of the acrobat. It was exactly the sort of sentiment that Crowley could spin if he did try to convince him though. Well, if they came through all of this fine on the other end at least.

When the name for Iceland’s song “No Prejudice” came up, and the band came out looking like The Wiggles going to court in 30 years he half wondered if this year was _made_ for him to convince Aziraphale that he’d enjoy it.

Not to mention that every act garnered the exact same pitch up in excitement and encouraging cheering as every other. Absolutely chock full of positivity, this lot were. It was a little disgusting if he was honest but he supposed it _was_ the spirit of the thing.

If he was also stuck with a smile on his face surrounded by colour and lights and the thrum of humanity, that was neither here nor there really.

He sat through the next ballad, eagerly awaiting something spectacular. The guy was in tats and piercings that looked too interesting for nothing to happen. And there was a piano, _a piano_. Instead of some big reveal or half the stage going up in flames it was played straight right through. It was earnest, he supposed. It was good, if he was honest. It was not the type of camp overboard that Crowley’s flash nature thrived on.

By the next song the props and wind machine were back, as was Crowley’s smile. The giant fucking ring keyboard was exactly the kind of kitsch that would have Aziraphale saying something like _”Good Lord.”_ and that made Crowley snort with laughter. He loved how utterly ridiculous people could be when you gave them an excuse to just do what they wanted.

Armenia’s offering came in a gentle halo of lights and the soulful assurance that ‘You’re not alone’. The smile froze on Crowley’s face and he quickly dropped his attention to texting the poor sod taking over her job for the duration to make sure Warlock had actually gone to bed. 

The flash of fire in front of him and an explosion of red lights and strobes almost made him drop the blessed phone. He did at least manage to get the text out in time to watch an ‘ice skater’ on rollerblades dance across the stage. Only to introduce another ballad. This time he wouldn’t be tricked into letting his guard down, though, he thought bitterly. 

He’d spent so long setting up a precedent for fire canons and flash ridiculousness and he’d still come up a cropper of it the first time he’d stopped paying attention.

Next to that, however, Poland attempting a sexy version of the Russian grannies whilst attempting something between a rap and an actual song. Well, it almost sent Crowley. He held his unnecessary breath so hard to stop himself laughing he thought he might strain a muscle.

“This is the spirit, right?” He grinned over the cheers before remembering again that he was alone and not actually torturing his angel with a good night out full of too many people.

Wouldn’t do that to him anyway. Aziraphale didn’t do great around so many people and so much stimulation. He’d probably end up overwhel med and refuse to speak to him for a month. No, better to have a quiet night in, their own little party. Drinking game, some stupid little flags, a fair bit of glitter…

By the time he came back to himself some bloke was just coming down from trampolining and he’d missed a whole song. He half wished he’d missed two when he realised it was another blessed ballad.

Then the lights went up and Crowley spotted from the close up screens that the singer, in a form fitting dress, also had an extremely well kept beard. He felt something lurch in his heart that might just have been pride. He had no idea if this was a hit at what the bloody Russians were up to or if it was just because this was the ESC, Satan bless it, and they were allowed to put people on just because they were decent enough singers and could be fun or interesting. Either way this was going out to millions.

Crowley was certain that somewhere in Soho, very close to a very gay district, Aziraphale would be feeling a rush of love that- though no. Of course, he probably wasn’t. Likely still with the Dowlings if anything, who were likely above any kind of fun like this. If he was in the shop he was probably too caught up in reading or something, entirely unaware of the biggest night of the year for some of the best districts and communities in London.

Well fuck it, it was just up to him to enjoy it then. Maybe even cheer for the first time, though it wasn’t very demonic to get caught up in all that love.

The girl in short white-blonde hair that took to the stage next with a fucking accordion on one side and a double bass on the other settled an ache in Crowley’s chest that he didn’t want to have to account for. He thought he might choke on air, ringing in his ears at the lyrics.

_The time is ticking in his ears, The holy silence disappears.  
Is it right or is it wrong? I can’t go on, you can’t go on._

Crowley desperately looked for a way out, feeling suddenly trapped by the press of bodies around him that moments ago had felt like a slightly removed community. A camouflage for the fact that he truly belonged nowhere. He couldn’t do this; not with some girl up on stage with Aziraphale’s hair in florals with the dorkiest backing instruments possible.

It. It was. He just couldn’t. Couldn’t breathe.

_But it’s so hard to say goodbye when you know that it’s right._  
So when it’s all not what you thought and the friendship is not enough,  
When you long to feel alive and take the chance to give it up. 

The intermission came and went. A ballad, maybe two. Loud noises, bright colours, strobe lights. None of it seemed to pierce completely through the howl of not-blood in Crowley’s ears as he tried to think of anything but Aziraphale.

Through it all Crowley stared with unseeing eyes, fighting the urge his face suddenly seemed to have to crumple. This was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be a break from seeing his angel day in and day out and being completely unable to do one single thing about the love that he shouldn’t be able to feel swelling up every time he saw him. Even, to Ashtoreth’s chagrin, seeing what was obviously meant as a joke disguise to look as unassuming and harmless as possible. Heaven forsake him, he loved him all the same.

It was supposed to be time to himself watching a thing that, quite in spite of himself, he really enjoyed in all of its campy, simple glory. 

For Satan’s sake, there was a woman on stage absolutely covered in unnecessary costume jewellery; all white and gold even in the lights. It should be delightful. It _should_ be making him want to try out the same stupid glittery face paint the guitarist had been daubed in.

Instead all he saw were the fake laurel wreaths and all he could think of was the first time Aziraphale had been the one to approach him. The first time Crowley had considered that just maybe Aziraphale enjoyed his company as much as the demon did his counterpart’s. It set off that ache in his chest again, that made the gap between them seem insurmountable; too wide to reach across despite them being closer than they ever had been.

He swallowed the feelings down forcefully. He couldn’t let this ruin the mood. He was going to have fun, this was _supposed_ to be fun.

Unfortunately Crowley was too busy fake cheering for the next singer, who was posed with a flute, to realise and appreciate the poetic justice of his determination to enjoy the event despite the pain after having basked in the same sentiment from thousands of others as they’d been trapped waiting to be let in.

Two relatively uneventful songs took the sharp edge away from each breath into Crowley’s lungs. Respectable songs, made it feel like an actual concert. Positively pedestrian by ESC standards and so beautifully forgettable and inoffensive that Crowley finally started to feel small enough to fit into his own corporation’s skin again.

Even the next song to finally feel a bit more Eurovision seemed set to ease him back into the joy of it. Actually in Spanish, and there was always something surprisingly nice (not nice, that’s a four letter word, but still) about songs that weren’t in English. It came with a pretty cool backlighting effect of rain falling. No one _really_ wants a ballad when they listen to Eurovision but it was alright, he supposed. It was safe around the frayed edges of him.

Then Switzerland with more lights, and a banjo, double base, violin, tambourine. A few pretty guys and a tragically well-styled moustache. Crowley finally felt himself smile again as his shoulders unwound from the hunch he hadn’t realised they had rounded into.

And yeah, there was a bit of an odd moment when the ‘piano player’ in the song after turned into an interpretive dancer and ended up acting out something that looked a bit worrying across the stage. Bit of a bummer, really, given the general tone. It was at least followed up with something cheesy and then a bit of a bop from some kids in suits.

Still, with everything else still too close to the surface Crowley could feel himself getting antsy. The urge to do something unkind; to cause pain that would lead to evil, was getting stronger and stronger.

Just as he was starting to really feed into people’s feelings about Russia ahead of the voting the roadies started to pull a few actually interesting props onto the stage as well as tying up the staging to a set of spikes that made it look like a spider-web or a shell across the stage. The smoke machines started as soon as the music did and for a long moment Crowley found himself too distracted to foment the discontent he could see around him.

That was the spirit of the thing. It might be a ballad but it looked like a reject from _Stars in their Eyes_. When she stopped singing for some heartfelt spoken lyrics and the wind machines kicked up Crowley was sold and quite thoroughly distracted.

He was grinning at how bad it all was right up until the second he realised that it was finally the UK. They were last in the order and Crowley knew for damn sure that they would stay in that position throughout the voting. 

Shame really. The kid was in a fucking gold dress trimmed in fur and had her backing singers draped in feathers over their shoulders like 80’s Mad Max rejects and it was absolutely fucking glorious. When they had the beat of silence, where Crowley always thought there should be a key change, and the sparks started falling from the ceiling, Crowley for once found himself actually a little miffed that the voting bit of it was so political. That was bloody great.

Despite this Crowley did have a job to do. And a very empty heart to fill up with the resentment and thinly veiled xenophobia of both the thousands piled in around him and the millions that tuned in to follow the madness of it live. From homes packed with friends. From countries that didn’t even participate. From quiet little homes, maybe even the back room of shops.

It was so easy to do. He could feel the undercurrent of it across Europe. The riptides that threatened just beneath the veneer of the happy little singing contest. Crowley only had to expend the smallest of efforts. Tipped the balance of countries voting for neighbours and friends. He even put a decent degree of effort into ensuring that the split for the Ukrainian vote was right down the centre for Russia. So many tensions building below the surface for nothing more than a cute little song by people who got no say in what their country did.

The end result left people surprisingly happy overall. More shocking than anything the UK didn’t do half bad in the results at all. The most important thing, of course, was that the seeds of discontent had been sewn and Crowley knew that people would use what they saw as political slights in whatever way they wanted to. He’d barely had to lift a finger to encourage it either; they would run with it all on their own.

He was so caught up in all of the evil that bound the voting and results that he’d almost forgotten about seeing Conchita on stage again.

Already tapped into the evil across Europe he could feel the hatred that came of a drag act winning the contest. He could feel the way it would be turned against Conchita herself; the things that would be thrown by the worst of people against anyone they thought fit a similar box too well. It was a step forward, it was heartening to Crowley who adored when humans refused to split into arbitrary camps. It was also quite naturally soothing to the demonic nature of him. Mostly. He wasn’t too upset about the backlash the community would have… mostly.

It was his job, after all. He encouraged sentiments and set up the conditions but it was always people: complicated, messy, cruel people, who chose to follow through on the darkest parts of them. 

It would be enough that this could make some very scared people feel seen and loved for who and what they were. All his angel’s sort of- well, no, not that.

But really it was. So like him. Even if he couldn’t always admit to the things he loved wholeheartedly thanks to the party line. He always did in his own quiet ways. It was a little bit like that here, too, throwing changes up there with a relative lack of fanfare and knowing it would be accepted as long as no one looks or comments too closely on it in the wring circles. It was full up of love and an excuse to come together. Maybe one day he’d be able to show it to Aziraphale and find out if the angel saw the same thing.


End file.
